Imitating Life
by Javanyet
Summary: When art imitates life it cuts close to the bone, especially when Mike's new song tells such a painful story. Totally A/U use of the song "Love is Only Sleeping", and connects to "Backslide" and "Counting Blessings".
1. Art

With Monkees Season Three in the can, preparations were underway for a two-week blitz tour comprised of two-night stands and accompanying press and radio appearances (San Francisco, Seattle, Chicago, Detroit, St. Louis, New Orleans, and New York) to promote the soon-to-be completed Monkees album. A recording that, finally, was fully under the band's control, including choosing the session musicians, writing most of the songs, and taking a major hand in production. It was decided that what had been premiered in Paris the year before, but not yet recorded, would be included. To say recording studio activity had ramped up would be a criminal understatement, but now they were within a few tracks of the final mixdown. Only one album cut remained to be recorded, Mike's newest composition.

He'd been strangely closed-mouthed about it, even to the point of announcing he'd be recording the instrumental tracks only with Davy Micky and Peter. Mike had laid some minimalist guitar stuff already and mixed it with the other tracks. As for the lyrics, for the first time ever nobody had a clue. Mike was always a real pain in the ass about his lyrics and how and by whom they would be sung, down to the last syllable. Even the ones he sang himself were subject to the kind of painstaking vocal choreography and re-takes of backing vocals that led to hoarse throats and frayed tempers.

This time? Not even a mention, though Mike consistently referred to this final album track as his "new song." And he was mighty anal about properly referring to a song as "music with lyrics... if there ain't lyrics, it's a _tune_!"

"Mike, man, this is far out stuff!" Micky had fairly shouted after hearing the playback of the instrumental mix. There were funky rattles and echo and organ effects and a badass bass line, finishing with a combination of all of it in a quick dissonant fade-out. Micky and Davy had swapped off on drums, Micky had worked his beloved Moog, with Peter on bass and keyboards and Mike's near-ghostly guitar licks. In the end it sounded so completely new and mind-bending that the issue of lyrics was forgotten. The Monkees had never released a completely instrumental cut, and this one was more than worthy to be the first.

Mike had little to say after all the the "groovy" and "far-out" except, "Thanks a million, fellas, this turned out better than it did in my head."

Micky gaped in over-played surprise. "Speaking of _firsts._ Your head is usually the temple of the impossible."

* * *

On the other side of the "Raybert Plantation" (so called by its "slaves to Bob") a more pragmatic sort of planning was being thrashed out, "thrashed" being the operative word. Bob had decided that Bonnie would be promoted from her usual on-tour job of backing him up by handling assorted needs and tasks to ... assistant tour manager.

"Why is it your 'promotions' always end up more like prison sentences?" she'd asked him after he made the announcement. Because for the first time, Bob was going to Sit This One Out entirely. It was well known he hated touring, and now had the excuse that he was working on nationwide airplay deals (wink wink nudge nudge), enticing new and bigger show sponsors, and getting involved with the Marketing department in all things licensed.

Or, as Bonnie put it, "Don't you have to have a tour manager to have an _assistant_ tour manager? Swell. _You'll_ be hustling lunchboxes while _I'll_ be playing ringmaster to the traveling circus."

Because they never had the same tour manager twice, for reasons that became obvious to each new one who came along.

Right now Bonnie and Bob were going over the breakdown of what had been done versus what was still in progress. Venues had already been booked; press calls and radio appearance scheduling was in progress. Hotels were currently being finalized, along with hiring whatever roadies and security were needed. Not many, thankfully, because _those_ tended to come back begging for every tour. For very obvious reasons, as in the perks of female companionship. Or, "The promise of getting laid is a mighty inducement, thank God." Bonnie was particularly grateful for the staying power of the security staff. By now not only were they hip to the evasive maneuvers of the guys, they were versed in wrangling the fans, groupies, and psychos that came with life on the road, and they knew how to tell them apart.

Bonnie _hated _wrangling groupies. Not because of Nesmith's checkered past, or the other guys' sometimes questionable social habits. It was because so many of them were so _earnest_ in their devotion, even the ones who knew they were the _flavor du jour_ and didn't care as long as they had a chance to get tasted. As for the Party Girls, that special breed of groupie whose only recreation was meeting up with the same bands every year, their sense of entitlement was annoying as hell. They didn't even always care if they scored with one of the band, or the crew, or anyone at all, as long as they were there for the after-gig Happening. Bonnie always found it incredibly perverse that when the amp echoes had died out and her ears were still ringing and she wanted to fall on her face and sleep for days, these broads were just getting fired up. Apparently screwing traveling bands was nice work if you could get it. So having reliable security to keep them out of her way was probably Bonnie's biggest obsession.

Except maybe for locations, which were out of her hands and completely up to Bob and other Über-Official PTB.

"Detroit," she moaned, and banged her finger on that heading in the tour itinerary. "Jesus, Bob, I _hate_ Detroit, the fans are _savages_! They tore up two grand worth of costumes last time, I know you remember _that_!"

Bob was unimpressed, as he had been with all of her various objections and complaints. He had no doubt she could back up what's-his-face the latest tour manager just fine. While it was true in some cases her known association with Nesmith cost her a bit in the respect department with newer roadies and other crew, she more than made up for it by scaring the crap out of them once she got rolling.

"So have 'em change _before_ they leave the theater. Who cares if a few hundred bucks' worth of J.C. Penney hippie shit gets torn up? Problem solved. Now if you don't have any _other_ parades you wanna rain on, why don't we call it a night."

"I was hoping we could have another look at the hotels budget. It's pretty over the top."

Admittedly, Bonnie had a hard time separating her Production brain from her Tour brain.

"Not your problem, I told you."

Already imagining the parties and races from venue to limo to God knows where... it was piling up in her face like it did every time before every previous (wildly successful) tour. And this time there would be no Bob to run the show.

"Look," she suggested desperately, "I bet we could get Peavey to design some of them foam-lined crates like they have for the sound equipment... we'll just lock the guys in and pull 'em out in time to go public. How's that?" She was only half - okay maybe one third - kidding.

Bob looked thoughtful for a minute, then deadpanned, "I think there could be a law against that in some states."

"Shit..." she snorted dismissively, "wouldn't be the _first_ law we broke on tour."

* * *

After the playback in the recording studio Micky and Davy had gone off into the night, but Peter had stayed behind at Mike's request.

"What can I help you with?" he asked.

"Here." Mike handed him a lyric sheet that included musical notations. "Can you give me a hand with backing vocals?"

"Lyrics, we figured you'd decided to do without. You know," he emphasized with raised eyebrows, "a _tune_."

"Very funny." All business, Mike leaned in to indicate some notes. "Got a fade-back harmony in mind here and here, a call and response in the bridge, and just a same-key duet phrase that'll cut off here, I'll take the last repeats into the fade-out." He didn't notice Peter's expression intensify as he studied the lyric and explained, "This'll just be a rough take, we can polish it up tomorrow. I'll cue up the tape for the 'phones." He handed Peter a set of headphones and sprinted to the booth.

"Yeah, sure," Peter responded, very distracted by the lyrics he was now re-reading. This wasn't just a song... it was a play-by-play of the months-long hell Mike and Bonnie fell into after he cheated on her during that location shoot in Chicago, though nobody except the people who knew them best would recognize it. Especially the title, whose words ended each verse, and would wind up the vocals in the eerie pre-fade-out repetition. He knew he'd be talking about this with Mike, maybe the only one beside Bonnie who had both the knowledge and the right. But Peter decided now wasn't the time as Mike hit the tape delay and jogged back down the stairs to put on his headset and take his place in front of one of the suspended microphones.

"Just go with it, Pete. You know what to do."

He did, and he followed Mike's notes. As he did he felt the uncanny _right_ness of Mike's instincts, and when they reached the call-and-response at the end of the bridge he actually felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. This song went deeper inside than any song had a right to do, and it was hard for him to believe Mike was able to write it at all, much less willing to record it.


	2. Music

By the time Mike came back from the booth after shutting off the recording equipment Peter still hadn't figured out exactly what he wanted to say, so he just went with his first impulse.

"Wow. Strong stuff, Mike. I don't know how else to describe it." He gestured with the lyric sheet he still held, waving it toward the booth where the rest of the wizardry lay, for the moment, silent. "_Strong_ stuff."

"Yeah, well it was, Pete, wasn't it. I mean, you were there."

"Does she know about it? At all?" Peter knew she hadn't heard the instrumentals yet, and he was sure Mike hadn't shown her the lyrics.

"Not yet. I wanted to wait until it had some shape to it, you know? D'you think anyone'll read it as anything but a new song? I'm really kinda on the fence about, you know, putting it on the record. I mean it's good as a song and all, but..."

"But. Yeah." Peter hesitated for a minute, then decided that as long as he'd been invited in, he might as well make himself at home. So to speak.

"The title... the refrain... that night you left my place, took my car, and went back to..."

Mike cut him off a little abruptly. "_Right_. After we got back from the Chicago shoot, and Morris found out what a lying shit I was, and I was crazy enough to go back for one night and she was crazy enough to let me. Yeah, you don't have to translate. I was there _too,_ remember?"

Peter handed the lyric sheet back to Mike as if it were something that shouldn't fall into the wrong hands.

"I was just gonna say, only you and me and Bonnie are gonna recognize that."

"And Genie, and Lulu and Ari Lowenstein and probably Micky and David too. No secrets in this little 'family'," Mike reminded him. He stuffed the lyric sheet in his back pocket and was turning to go back to the booth when Peter grabbed his arm to stop him.

"_Look_, man, you asked and I told you," he insisted. "Because you already knew _I_ get it, or I wouldn't be here, right?" Mike didn't answer but the tight lines around his eyes and mouth loosened some as Peter continued. "You wanna know what I think? I think it might be the best damn song you've written so far. And I think that like all your other songs, the radio reps and the studio reps and the PTB will 'read' it like they read all of our stuff: ratings and record sales. And the fans, take me now Lord, the _fans_. They won't read it at all. It's just another one of Mike Nesmith's 'dark moody songs', another example of his twisted take on love, they'll love it or hate it depending on whether they love or hate the Mike Nesmith they think they want to know. And the rest of us? Hell, we'll just read it like it is. Another chapter in your mind-bendingly messy life with Bonnie, dressed up as a song you write for nobody. By now none of us believe that 'nobody' bullshit anyway. So the way I see it you got nothing to worry about."

As sometimes happened, Mike was forced to abandon his tortured perspective for something a little more everyday. "Yeah,well when you put it that way... but I'm telling you, it won't make the cut unless Morris says so."

Peter's eyes sprung wide. "You telling me Michael 'Full Artistic Control' Nesmith is passing off a recording decision to someone _else?"_ He mimed rummaging through his pockets. "And me without my camera." He headed off his friend's fierce scowl by shaking him hard by the shoulder.

"Lighten _up_ will you? It's a great song, it's a great new antidote to bubblegum for the new album, and you and Bonnie came out of it in one piece." Then he got quiet and looked Mike hard in the eye. _"One_ piece, man, not two broken ones. What could possibly be groovier?"

* * *

Contrary to his first impulse Bob took the time to explain to Bonnie, in a little more detail than "not your problem", how the hotel decisions had been made and why they were not "over the top". After all, he didn't want her to start thinking that money was no object _on_ the set.

"Happy now?" He looked at his watch and started rummaging through his Rolodex. "Now I gotta make some calls. Go home and give _Nesmith_ a headache, it's a cinch he's done something today to deserve it."

Bonnie picked up her stuff and stood to glare down at him.

"Bob. I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah, I hate you too but who else will put up with us." He was already dialing one of his merchandising consultants, but gave himself _just enough_ time to inform Bonnie before she left, "Almost forgot, there'll be a camera crew. Monkees On Tour epi, it'll be great."

She spun to face him again. "_WHAT?_"

But it was too late, he was waving her out as he clamped the phone to his ear. "Shut the door, babe, will ya."

She complied with a wall-rattling slam.

"Hey Maury, it's Bob. Earthquake? Nah, just my A.P."

* * *

Bonnie tore into Recording Studio 3 without even checking to see if the "Recording in Process" sign was lit.

"Bob is a mental case," she raged and hurled her (securely closed) briefcase to the floor. "You don't wanna _know_ what he has planned for this tour. Even if you do, it's better I don't tell you til it's wheels up time on that dumbass Monkees plane." She was mortified to travel in that thing, it looked like one of Bob's silly Monkees lunchboxes, only with wings and without head shots and fake autographs (thank God). Intent on her rant, she didn't notice that Mike and Peter had cut off their conversation as if a kill switch had been thrown.

"I'm gonna give my notice and getta job at McDonald's. I'd rather flip burgers than flip _out_."

The other two shifted a bit awkwardly.

"Uh, I think it's time to hit the road," Peter announced a little too brightly.

"Or hit the _deck,"_ Mike shot back.

"Oh, ba-dum_-bum_ to you too," Bonnie snapped.

Peter headed for the studio exit but stopped to give Bonnie a strong hug as he passed. "Night, Bon." She stood staring after him as he left, then turned to ask Mike, "What's with him?"

"Beats me. Look, there's something I want you to hear..."

"Oh, Nes, _no_, can't you let it breathe a little first, I wanna go _home_."

When he didn't answer she went to him and snuggled up as close as she could, arms around his waist and fingers locked into his belt loops, head tilted up until her chin was almost flat against his chest. "Pleeease, baby, take me home and feed me dinner and put me to bed, Mamadillo is _fried_." He gazed down at her, still silent. She relented when she felt him sigh.

"It's important isn't it," she acknowledged in an earnest voice. "Not like _'now_ dammit' important, like _important_ important."

"Pretty much." He leaned down to kiss her forehead.

She gave him a squeeze then, and turned him loose. "Okay then. I know how big this new album is for you guys, you know I'll help any way I can."

Bonnie followed Mike into the booth and waited as he put on the engineer's headset and queued up the the vocal and instrumental tapes to feed into the right channels. He didn't fuss with them much, just got the balance right before handing the 'phones to Bonnie.

"It's all set, just hit play. Volume should be fine."

"Okay..." He seemed a little off to her, he was usually all about explaining things when he wanted her to listen to something new, like "this is why this will show up here", and "that's what's gonna come in there". And Peter seemed kinda weird too.

"So really, what's with Pete tonight?"

Mike smiled one of his "mystery" smiles. "I dunno, babe. Guess he just loves you too. You listen, I'll be packing up the equipment downstairs."

"But..." He was gone before she could ask what he meant. Oh well._ He's in another one of his cryptic-creative grooves_, she thought, recalling that had been the norm for the past couple of weeks. She shrugged, slipped on the headphones and punched 'Play'.


	3. Life

Mike coiled the cables and took the microphones down from the overhead booms, forcing himself not to look up in the direction of the engineering booth. He could barely see the top of her head bent over the board, and wouldn't see anything more unless she jumped to her feet in horror. Or rage. Or something else he figured he was risking.

He'd made a mental list of the things that he wouldn't worry about imagining, because he knew her style when she was listening to something new, no matter who wrote it. She always sat the same way, head bent forward, eyes closed, usually holding the headphones to her ears as if essential bits of the sound might sneak away unnoticed. And she didn't move a muscle... no dancing feet or bobbing head. Her face would go completely blank as soon as the play switch was hit... Mike and the guys called it her "listening trance". It was absolutely impossible to read her response as she listened; that had to wait until the tape spun out. And even then, after several minutes of silence she'd sit still as a stone, phones still clamped on tight, letting it swim and settle in her head before she risked translating hearing into words.

He wouldn't read anything into any of it, seen or unseen. But this time the waiting was killing him, so better to be where the vibe had no chance of reaching her. It wasn't that he needed her to _like_ it... he just needed to have gotten it right. That would mean he'd gotten _them_ right, so he could stop being scared that he never would.

* * *

The lead-in blew Bonnie's mind.

_Whatta hook, that bass line, that percussion..._

Two lines in, she knew what it was.

**_/she looked at me / and the emptiness in her eyes was cruel to see/_**

_wait, this is... it's..._

Then came some of her own words, the ones she'd spoken in pain and bewildered rage. Even though she'd said at first that she couldn't walk away, that bubble of certainty that surrounded them when she said it didn't last long.

_it's not me, or us... it's him_ , _where he was, watching and waiting for it all to be better... oh my god..._

_**/I whispered sometimes love is only sleeping/**_

Assuming it was a metaphor was way too simple. It was more than that, it was _everything_ that kept her from running in the beginning when she was so injured. It was about that night he came begging for sleep, begging for her to quiet the noise in his head that he'd made himself, when she needed the very same thing from him. That was the one thing that lasted through it all, the certainty that when one woke the other would be there because sleep was where they still resonated, quieting each other's noise, unable to hurt each other. But he was so _afraid_, the door to their house was where his fear always raised its head and showed in that heartbeat of hesitation in his eyes... would she still be there when he came home? Would she come back again after she went out? There were times when she wasn't sure herself, and there wasn't a thing she could do to hide it from him.

**_through the endless days and nights / she could not help but wrap herself in sorrow/  
through the endless days and nights / we waited for a shiny new tomorrow/_**

All that time he was waiting, she was waiting too, but not for a shiny new tomorrow. She waited for him to _believe_ like she did, that if they just hung on long enough it would pass. That was _her_ fear... that he'd never believe it could. He believed in the permanence of damage... that's what she feared would kill them. "Shiny and new" wasn't in the cards for them; that only happened once, in Chicago, a lifetime ago.

_stop... too many layers, too many meanings, just hold on and let it flow_

Bonnie forced herself to shut off her reasoning brain. And then...

_transition... minor to major, fear to..._

She sat up straight, for the first time ever dropping the headphones on the board before the final fade. For the first time ever, not hitting rewind. No need for rewind; it was all right there the first time, in the modulation in the last verse. It was subtle, but it was there, and it told her everything.

Suddenly it all made sense; Mike's more-secretive-than-usual behavior surrounding the new song, his insistence she hear it right now before he was moved to remix and refine it. Before he lost his nerve. And Peter made sense now too. _Guess he just loves you too._ She knew she wasn't the only one. For Peter, love never slept.

* * *

When Bonnie descended to the now painfully-tidy studio Mike didn't look up from the equipment cases he'd (needlessly) stacked in the corner. He wasn't sure what he expected. Finally he straightened, slowly, and faced her. She wore an odd expression, one he couldn't read.

"Look, I'll keep it off the album," he told her. "I didn't want to drag us down that road again, but it was something that just... came out."

"You remember how you said to me once, that the best songs are the ones that tell you something? A story, or a feeling, or an experience?" Before he could answer she gestured toward the booth. "That... _song_. That thing you made... from us." She stopped for a minute, searching for words, and of course he misunderstood.

"I shouldn't have made you listen, bad enough I put you through it to begin with. Like I said, I'll keep it off the album."

"Don't you _dare._ You want only your best on this one, and no matter what else this one is, it's your best."

"Pete said that too." The possibility that it might be true seemed more than a little perverse.

"Pete's a smart guy. Michael... I was so afraid for so long that you'd never really believe we'd be okay." She looked at the floor for a minute. "Okay, we both know I wasn't all that sure either, but _one_ of us had to believe anyway, and I was afraid that it wouldn't be you, not ever." She looked up at him again, smiling. "I'm not afraid anymore, because you just told me something really important."

"That we'll be okay?" In spite of how much better things were with them, he still wasn't sure; he needed to hear it but had never had the guts to ask the question straight out.

"That a sad song can have a happy ending." She didn't exactly want to cry, but there it was.

Suddenly she was wrapped up in that long-armed twice-around embrace that always made every good thing better.

"Morris, Morris... have I ever told you that you have the soul of a poet?" he whispered in her ear as he rocked them from side to side. When she looked up at him he saw her eyes were red from more than tears. "Aw baby, you are so worn out. Sweet Mamadillo..._ te amo_..." He bent his head to breathe the last words into a lingering kiss. When he raised his head again she was still looking up at him.

"Can we go _home_ now?"

"And I'll make you dinner, and put you to bed," he promised with a wink. He gave her another kiss and kept one arm around her as they moseyed to the parking lot in silence. When they got there and he'd dropped the rag top, she stopped him before he shut her door.

"Nesmith... you're gonna put it on the album, right?"

"Band one," he promised as he slid behind the wheel. "But remember, babe..." he added, smiling slyly, "I didn't write it for anybody."

Bonnie laughed out loud and dropped her head back against the seat as he gunned the engine.

"I do love you, you dumbass cowboy."

"_How_ many times I gotta tell you, I _ain't_ no damn cowboy..."

Some things never changed.

* * *

**A/N: I twisted music history way outta shape for this story. The "new album" is not meant to imply "Headquarters". "Love Is Only Sleeping" appeared on _Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn and Jones, Ltd_. and was not written by Mike Nesmith but by Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil. Likewise it was produced by Chip Douglas, not Mike Nesmith. Micky Dolenz sang harmony, with Davy Jones and Chip Douglas backing. And it had impressive session musicians on drums, bass, and acoustic guitar. (This ain't called fiction for nothing!) A bit of real trivia: the song was first intended as the A side for a single w/Goin' Down on the B side but was nixed by the PTB because it might be too **** risqué****. So it was replaced by - ta da - Daydream Believer, which is a song about a man talking to a woman as they get up in the morning but was considered _not_ to be risqué. Go figure.**


End file.
